


Whenas in Silks

by AnnaFan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Exuberant Dress Sense, Gen, Homophobia, Humour, Teitho, Undermining Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:24:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3964279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First summer in the job!  Aragorn faces council meetings (one, exceptionally boring), weddings (two, lovely) and looming diplomatic crises with allies (one, narrowly averted).  Written for April's Teitho challenge, “Raiment”.</p>
<p>Now part 4 of "The Silk Road".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whenas in Silks

__  
_Whenas in silks my Julia goes_  
_Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows_  
_That liquefaction of her clothes._

_Next, when I cast mine eyes and see_  
_That brave vibration each way free;_  
_Oh how that glittering taketh me!_

_Robert Herrick  
_

The new king raised long fingers to his temples and gently rubbed in small circles. By all the Valar, this had to be one of the most boring meetings he had ever sat through. There were so many serious matters he knew to be in need of urgent attention, and yet this meeting seemed dedicated to an endless stream of trivia. Lord Turgon's voice, creaky as an old gate on rusty hinges, droned on and on. The sunlight glinted through the high windows, catching dust motes in the air; the afternoon heat felt oppressive, especially when dressed in the thick ceremonial vestments which the occasion demanded. Suppressing a yawn took iron self-control and iron jaw muscles. Aragorn felt his cheek twitch with the effort.

Surreptitiously, he took a sidelong look at his Steward. Faramir, it appeared, was as bored as he was. The young man had adopted a pose which, to the casual observer, made it look as though he was listening intently and taking copious notes. The knuckles of his left hand were pressed to his brow in a passable imitation of intense concentration, and his quill scratched diligently upon the parchment which lay in front of him. But Aragorn was close enough to see that the scratchings in fact took the form of a doodle: an elaborate swathe of draped fabric, which Faramir was absent mindedly shading. Then, in his precise, flowing hand, he sketched a few words beneath in flowing Tengwar. “Whenas in silks my Lady goes...”

Now Aragorn felt his cheek twitch anew, but this time the effort lay in stifling a smile. He knew that poem all too well. Faramir must have felt the King's gaze upon him, for he looked up and caught Aragorn's gaze for a moment, and flushed slightly. As he struggled not to burst out laughing, Aragorn's mind unhelpfully supplied the second stanza, and his eyebrows rose interrogatively as he looked at his young Steward. Faramir must have had the same thought at the same time for his faint flush grew into a full blown scarlet blush. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and rapidly pulled a map of estate boundaries over the top of the scrap of parchment, pretending to study its finer details in minute detail and stooping forward to let his long dark hair fall over his face.

_Aha, so that's the way things are_ , Aragorn thought. _Here's hoping that my steward has only a vivid imagination... Because if on the other hand he has a vivid memory..._ Aragorn shook his head at the thought of the diplomatic incident which could ensue. Then he did his best to stifle a wry smile. _Well, at least it solves the conundrum Imrahil set before me yesterday: whether to ask Éomer to have them handfasted in front of the court in Edoras later this summer, or to insist on a year's betrothal in accordance with the laws of Gondor. If we are to avoid Éomer riding back with the Rohirrim, this time to lay siege rather than lift one, then a handfasting as soon as possible would seem to be wise._

With a start, Aragorn realised he'd missed the evolving conversation in the council chamber. Turgon's creaking drone had been replaced by Castamir's stentorian pomposity. He was assessing the relative merits of two candidates for the office of magistrate, one of whom (if Aragorn's memory served him right) just happened to be his own nephew. He seemed to be adopting the simple, if transparent strategy of damning the other candidate.

“Of course, Lord Tondir's surviving son must be such a disappointment to him...” Castamir allowed his voice to trail off, clearly taking it for granted that his audience shared certain assumptions which the King was ignorant of. Aragorn, tired of Castamir's endless not-so-subtle attempts to undermine him, decided not to let this slip.

“How so? He acquitted himself both bravely and with tactical shrewdness on the field of Morannon.”

“Ah yes, a brave soldier in time of war. But perhaps less suited to time of peace.”

“Early days, surely, to pass that judgement, my Lord,” said Aragorn.

“Ah, but I think that it is well known to many here, though perhaps not to yourself, Sire, that valiant warrior that he may be, as you so correctly point out, he is perhaps more comfortable in the company of his fellow warriors.” Somehow, Castamir made it through this excessively wordy sentence without drawing breath.

Aragorn fixed the lord with an icy stare. From the knowing looks exchanged between those round the table, there was some undercurrent he still was not reading aright.

From his other side, Turgon's aide leaned over and said in a low voice, “I think what Lord Castamir is hinting at is that he is... flamboyant in his choice of raiment.” 

Fleetingly, Aragorn was puzzled by this extraordinary non-sequitur, before the intention behind the words dawned. For a moment, he felt a surge of anger, that a courageous soldier should be the subject of such calumny. He was tempted to launch into an impassioned defence.

Just in time, he realised that to do so would allow Castamir the opening he wanted. He would come across as a naïve fool, and Castamir would gain an opportunity to pour out more poison, under the guise of diplomatically explaining to the King how complex the niceties of the situation were. Suddenly, inspiration came to him in the form of a glimpse, from the corner of his eye, of Imrahil. The ever-elegant prince of Dol Amroth sat at the other end of the table, resplendent in magnificently embroidered peacock blue robes. Aragorn offered up a quick prayer that he had read the prince right, and that the man was as urbane and unflappable as he thought he was. And that their burgeoning friendship was solid enough for him to forgive Aragorn's words. Adopting a casual tone, and giving what he hoped was a worldly smile, he spoke.

“An able warrior, comfortable in the company of his soldiers, and with a flamboyant sense of dress... Are you describing Tondir's heir, or the good Prince of Dol Amroth?”

Beside him, Faramir made a choking noise which he rapidly attempted to cover with a coughing fit. _Well, at least that's taken his mind off his glittering shieldmaiden._ Aragorn glanced down the table at Imrahil. _Thank the Valar!_ His reading of the prince's character had been right; Imrahil sat with a look of quiet amusement on his countenance, leaning forward slightly as if in keen anticipation of the next scene in the farce being played out.

Turgon spoke in tones of some embarrassment, “That comparison, I'm sure, was not one which anyone in this room would make. After all, Imrahil is... is... father to three fine sons and a beautiful daughter.”

“Well,” said Aragorn, suavely, “Úron, son of Tondir, is as yet young. Give the man a chance to sow his seed.” He realised he was beginning to enjoy this game. He glanced round the table. Were any of Castamir's faction ready to say in so many words exactly what crime they wanted him to believe Úron guilty of? From the way they avoided his eye, shuffling papers or glancing at Castamir to see what lead he offered them, he rather thought not. 

“So,” the King continued, affecting a cheerful brightness in his tone. “The new post of magistrate. You have mentioned Úron's excellent war record, his ability to foster loyalty among his comrades, and as far as I can see, his only drawbacks are his dress sense and the fact that he has not, as yet, sired any children. Though given that he is as yet unwed, I am more inclined to think this last point should be placed on the credit side of the ledger. He seems a most excellent candidate. Does anyone wish to dissent? No? Good. Perhaps, Lord Turgon, you would like to speak to the next item on the agenda.”

~o~O~o~

Imrahil ushered his King and his nephew into the garden, and led them down a path shaded by plane trees. They came to a halt beside the fountain in the centre of the courtyard. Aragorn was the first to break the companionable silence.

“I hope you were not offended by my reference to your garments, Prince.” 

“Not at all. It enlivened what otherwise promised to be one of the dullest experiences of my life. Though Dol Amroth is perhaps a little less conservative in its attitudes than Minas Tirith. Admittedly, most men here would baulk at wearing a tunic quite like this one. In truth, my wife chose it for me. I must admit, I rather like it, though.” Imrahil gave a faint smile.

Faramir, ever aware of his duty to smooth the new king's course through the uneven shoals of Gondorian society, felt moved to explain. “It's the colours, you see. Bright colours tend to be reserved for ladies, while gentlemen wear more muted colours. And individual colours carry significance: blues for Uinen's oceans, purples for the night sky across which Elbereth scatters her stars, yellow for the primroses Yavanna brings forth in spring. For this reason, men tend not to wear those colours, though some red trim or discreet embroidery in a deep pink is considered permissible, red being the colour of Tulkas, and bringing to mind valour on the field of combat.”

Imrahil's smile broadened. “Of course, we men of the coast consider ourselves ever in the merciful hands of Uinen, so we are not in the slightest averse to wearing her colour. And, as you mentioned, it does not stand in the way of our getting of heirs, which we pursue with every bit as much enthusiasm as the men of this city of stone.”

Aragorn gave a ready grin in response, and said, “Quite. In years past, Captain Thorongil did find these customs strange at first, used as he was to the elves of Rivendell, but I am now quite adjusted to the ways of my new home.” He couldn't resist a sly dig at his earnest young steward. “Of course, blues, purples and yellows do look so bright and joyful when used to colour a fine silk dress.” The young man blushed bright red once more, and Imrahil raised a questioning eyebrow.

~o~O~o~

The day before midsummer, the procession made its way through the gates of the city: Elladan, Elrohir, Glorfindel, Erestor, the Lady Galadriel, the Lord Celeborn, Lord Elrond, and finally his betrothed, Arwen, the Evenstar of her people. Aragorn watched with soaring joy in his heart, his heart filled with a love so great it felt as though it would burst the confines of his mortal frame and take flight to the great vault of the sky above.

Imrahil watched with wonder, but also with a barely repressed amusement. Primrose yellow, blues the colour of sapphires, emerald greens, reds like the richest of rubies, pinks and purples to rival the fuschias and bougainvilleas in bloom in the city's courtyards and gardens. The only hue which could compete with the bright garments of the Elves was the mottled puce of Lord Castamir's complexion. Imrahil feared he might be carried off by an apoplectic fit. On further reflection, he decided that “feared” was perhaps not the word he was searching for.

~o~O~o~

A month or so later, Imrahil raised his tankard in salutation. “Your good health, Sire."

"And yours, my friend," Aragorn replied. "The bride looks well in that gown. I seem to recall you mentioning that you had sent the fabric to Edoras as part of your wedding gifts to the lady. Do I detect your wife's excellent taste in choosing that silk? Haradi, imported by the merchants of Pelargir, unless I miss my guess."

"You have a keen eye, my liege."

"T'is long since that I patrolled that coast, but I remember the clamour of busy docks and bustle of market places fondly." Aragorn paused took a sip of his ale. "Ah! The barley of the Mark makes a fine brew, but should be approached with caution.” Again, he paused for a heartbeat or two, then said, “Tell me, my lord. Your lady chose the silk, but who, may I ask, chose the colour?"

"I confess that was my idea. Having first encountered the lady in her armour upon the field of combat, it seemed to me that nothing short of Tulkas' richest red could do her sufficient honour."

Aragorn nodded his head in approval. Imrahil continued.

"The seamstresses of Rohan have done the fabric justice. The design and embroidery are excellent, and the cut is both admirably flattering and remarkably cunning."

"Indeed. I am far from being well-versed in such womanly arts, but even to my untutored eye, it has been put together with great skill. One might say it conceals as much as it reveals. How glad I am that I acceded to your wise advice and agreed to a handfasting sooner rather than later."

The two men watched as the bride rested her hand upon the embroidered stomacher, fanning her fingers out. It was a gesture at once loving and protective, and unmistakable in its implications. The new-made Prince of Ithilien, and even newer husband, gently placed his hand on top of hers, and smiled down at her as though the world had contracted to a tiny sphere containing only the two of them.

Now it was Imrahil's turn to give the gentlest of inclinations of his head. "I have long been of the opinion that the best diplomacy lies in averting difficult situations beforehand rather than resolving them once they have happened."


End file.
